


rhythm

by cellshaded



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Bathroom Sex, Blood and Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mild Murder Kink, Non-Consensual Photography, Out of Character, Stockholm Syndrome, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellshaded/pseuds/cellshaded
Summary: it’s something lio would say and oh, it makes him sick, but maybe they were made for each other.
Relationships: Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> timestamp for sweetheart: post-open gym & midwinter break, pre-prom night/you’ll see things my way soon. accompanies garowann’s school bathroom art https://twitter.com/garowann/status/1210635715031322624?s=20 (nsfw), which is gorgeous & which i love. 
> 
> i do dislike this piece but it won the poll so it will be posted for u all u__< i made a few edits on parts i really disliked from the version published in sweetheart but please feel free to be mean to me abt technical issues, this was the 2nd fic i ever wrote & i’m well aware ToT
> 
> note: there's also referenced rope bondage/vomiting/noncon gangbang in this, but they're mild enough that i didn't put them in the tags. lmk if u would prefer it to be tagged as well !

galo's been fucked by five people today, and lio's back now to take them on their equivalent of a thursday date.

“i told them they could be rougher after that little display from earlier,” lio's cooing, dragging manicured nails down plum-bruised hips, fingers tracing the letters of every obscenity scrawled into his skin. “but i didn’t know they’d go this crazy, shit.”

every touch and tender word of praise is a precursor. a means to an end, moving the goalposts just enough to coax out one more round without a fight. galo knows that already.

“you look so pretty like this.”

he knows that the relief he feels at lio’s touch— _lio, lio, finally_ —residual sparks of humiliation comforting because they’re so familiarly _his_ , is long-accepted hellfire. lio’s not so unpredictable anymore. galo knows how to please him, feeble pleas and angling his hips just right— it’s nothing like everyone else he’s been lent out to, choruses of jeering and split-second changes and hazy, drugged out noise. 

sometimes he wonders what it’d be like to be lio’s only darling, exclusive pet, promises slurred out through punch-drunk fucks of his hips and never followed through with. 

lio brings him back with a stroke along his thigh; swirling smooth fingertips along curves of muscle, thumbing over a spot bleeding so profusely he must have split a vein. 

the ache splatters everywhere, hurt muddled between piercing and bone-deep— any touch will feel bruising enough, so lio’s gentle-gentle on the skin. he’d gotten his phone out without galo noticing, charms and keychains jingling from his other hand as he waves the camera in front of his face.

galo doesn’t think he can ever really cope with the cameras, and he hates the click of any shutter. they light up lio’s angular features in a sickly kind of way, twisting his smile in a manner too truthful to bear. the cameras are always the worst part. but, like with everything else, compromise is a learned skill, and he performs, performs, performs his end of the deal.

deals are meant to be agreed on, maybe, but lio does his part. _his body’s free game, but don’t fuck up the face. he’s mine._ it’s lio’s idea of love. he’s been shown a lot of alternatives, lately— galo would choose his favorite boy a hundred times over. 

it’s something lio would say and oh, it makes him sick, but maybe they were made for each other.

so he’s keeping his gaze down the way lio likes it, letting himself get lost in the aching hinge of his jaw and the trickle of blood and cum between his legs. there’s an edge of the toilet seat that cracked in the autumn and never got fixed. there’s a spot where the jagged lip digs into the curve of his ass, dripping blood into grimy toilet water, turned pink with gore and fluid and bile. he’s staring at where the fresh blood swirls and praying that he won’t be gurgling sobs into the water again if lio wants him turned around.

“darling,” five seconds; right on time. his smile is tender and dripping saccharine. “look at me?”

the puppet-jerk of his head is routine and effortless— splits his smiling lip and legs wide, waits for the shutter to go off. _click_. an engineered turn of the head, a curl to the shoulders, easy. _click_.

his restraints go for the final shot, fingers twisted into a pornstar-sloppy peace sign. the blood from his torn nails slides fresh, still flowing, and galo watches as lio lets it run down his own wrist and stain the fine cuff of his sweater. it’s purposeful, loving, shamelessly ulterior.

more than that— the movement is sacrificial. the unspoken _what do you say?_ canopies the air between them, and— there’s the missing piece. galo shouldn’t be one to blaspheme.

it hurts to make any sound at all: “thank you,” and his throat is scraped raw with fire. “thank you for being good to me.”

but he’s lucky. a cut here and there, but a lip he split himself, more marks left in signatures than in scars. lio’s friends kept a promise, and galo knows exactly how many hours of his pay that sweater had scratched into lio’s wallet. it’s little things— they know each other. he’s lucky.

“good boy.” lio flicks his finger and boops the tip of galo’s nose, making a face when his nails touch the still-wet skin. galo gives him a full body flinch in return.

it’s practiced, almost perfect, and maybe one day he’ll be so gone that it won’t be real at all.

but lio’s been sweet today. lio pushes their seesaw up and back down again, lends him out and patches him up. fingers toying with torn seams, hooking under loose stitches, but always, always sewing him back together. conceding, maybe, for him.

there’s a broken, reedy sound coming high from galo’s throat when lio pulls away, pitched into a wail when lio doesn’t make a move to come back. galo wants a little more romance for today.

“n-no, wait, please—” it’s desperate, pathetic, and before galo processes what he’s doing he’s surging forwards, mindless to the violent protest of his joints, trapping him in a kiss half bile and half spit.

lio’s mouth is soft-warm-sweet in the spaces behind his chapped lips, tinged bitter where hot blood pools on galo’s tongue. lio grinds down with serrated teeth past a half-second of shock, the flash of irritation in his eyes minute, horribly familiar. galo feels the cold where his head struck the wall racing down his spine.

 _he’s been sweet today_ , he had thought, blocking out every game played in between, and maybe that was the final slip-up. his lip is split open again.

“don’t kiss me,” and the hand lio leaves gripping galo’s shoulder feels like snakeskin and sandpaper. “when there’s fucking vomit in your mouth.”

it sends galo reeling with a wave of nausea and something he can only call a naïve _hurt,_ juvenile conventions he thought had been long stamped out. his heartbeat thumps heavy in the back of his skull and that’s not right, is it, he should know these things, brainless first year health teacher be fucking damned — 

he focuses on the flare in lio’s eyes. first and final priority. stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“sorry,” it squeaks out cracked open and disgusting, vowels slurring on a swollen tongue. “s-sir, i’m sorry.”

on credulous nights, galo entertains the idea that lio keeps their bittersweet rhythm because he won’t hurt him like worse people in the world can, _can’t_ hurt him like that. it’s his schoolyard-crush lio, a lio that exists only in his daydreams. not the one glaring solid and real in front of him, strands of hair haloed by dingy bathroom and grating gymnasium lights.

lio leaves raw hems to fray into tatters, ribbons of flesh and fabric. galo is gracious enough to call it his own mistake. 

the flare turns snuffed candle flame; lio lowers his other hand; galo takes a breath gingerly through his mouth. lead-heavy legs press back up against his chest, hamstrings whining as lio thumbs around his swollen entrance not as courtesy but as pastime. he guides galo’s hands to undo his pants for him before slapping them away and fisting his own cock, fucking it inside.

galo knows that he’s always cornered when and where they’ll never really get found— third floor bathroom behind the math wing is where star student cock can get wet with teacher, and so screaming is performative in the way lio writes it with an open dot over the i. fruitless in a way that he can’t waste energy on during an apology. the pace crawls bored and repetitive, hips grinding more to prove a point than for pleasure, stirring up flakes of dried blood and cum that drag out with every movement.

galo’s nails claw patterns into the wall in a crude attempt to divert the pain anywhere else, and the hurt is so comfortingly routine it gets him hard.

there’s a fingertip trailing up and down the line of his sternum, a faraway look drifting soft over lio’s eyes. galo thinks of the pictures he sees tucked into lio’s locker, taped up in a manic haze along the walls of his bedroom— pictures of himself he doesn’t know how lio got. marked with dotted lines like cuts of fresh meat, scribbled over in shades of red, his body a daydream crime scene finally visible to the eye.

he thinks of an afternoon where lio stripped and marked him to match one of those ruined photographs, a line up his torso with a teasing, remorseless blade. lio tied him down in the light of the setting sun and taught in loving detail how he’d like to cut him up, how his blood would be warm and coppery and sweet.

— a smattering of viscera burst across his chest where the knife would dig in, make a jagged path through a roadmap of thick, scarred skin. streaky red tiles, cloudy-day eyes, a gangrened sex doll left to rot in the corner of his room.

lio would find it so, so pretty.

galo’s throat closes up, body going rigid, cum splattering up to his chin.

lio can’t read his mind, not really, but his smile still stretches wide in daintily suppressed mockery. he’s jackrabbiting in and out of galo’s body, eyes transfixed as his love hiccups and fights a gag pressing up out of his throat. there’s no fixing sick like that.

it takes one tear to fall before lio comes sloppily inside him, panting soft and lovely against his hair. galo squeezes his eyes shut as lio slips out and tucks a strand behind his ear, lapping up the trails that drip hot down his cheeks.

“the janitors come around in twenty minutes.” lio’s the picture of innocence again when galo can unstick his eyelashes, clothes straightened and hair finger-combed back out. saliva and bloodstains get tucked away in the folds of his sweater, and he’s perfect in the most artificial of ways. “i’ll meet you in your car in fifteen.”

galo feels like all the sick juts out of him, in the sticky wetness of his thighs, the cum beginning to crust in the stitches of his shirt. lio’s is all wrapped up in thousand-dollar product.

they contrast themselves and each other like that, all oxymoronic, spilling heady into the lines of their story. in predictable instability, in miserable contradictions, in reckless and calculated, sickly sweet and violent. their end is written by a leash around the neck. lio drags him along, and galo adjusts their rhythm to fit a pathetic mimicry of mutuality.

he’s a giving person— it’s how they got here.

the walls and floor are speckled with sprays of fluid, scrawled across with messages too incriminating to leave behind. there’s a _click-click-click_ where lio’s footsteps echo into the hallway, and a quiet _thump_ where galo kneels on tattered knees to scrub them away.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to talk to me on twitter @cannibawism !! please leave a comment... TT


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